East Lynne eBook

There was no answer. Madame Vine sat on, with
her white face. She and it wore altogether a
ghastly look.

“It tells like a fable out of a romance,”
resumed Mrs. Carlyle. “Well for him if
the romance be not ended in the gibbet. Fancy
what it would be for him—­Sir Francis Levison—­to
be hung for murder!”

“Barbara, my dearest!”

The voice was Mr. Carlyle’s, and she flew off
on the wings of love. It appeared that the gentlemen
had not yet departed, and now thought they would take
coffee first.

She flew off to her idolized husband, leaving her
who had once been idolized to her loneliness.
She sank down on the sofa; she threw her arms up in
her heart-sickness; she thought she would faint; she
prayed to die. It was horrible, as Barbara
had called it. For that man with the red stain
upon his hand and soul she had flung away Archibald
Carlyle.

If ever retribution came home to woman, it came home
in that hour to Lady Isabel.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MR. CARLYLE INVITED TO SOME PATE DE FOIE GRAS.

A sighing morning wind swept round the domains of
East Lynne, bending the tall poplar trees in the distance,
swaying the oak and elms nearer, rustling the fine
old chestnuts in the park, a melancholy, sweeping,
fitful wind. The weather had changed from brightness
and warmth, and heavy, gathering clouds seemed to
be threatening rain; so, at least, deemed one wayfarer,
who was journeying on a solitary road that Saturday
night.

He was on foot. A man attired in the garb of
a sailor, with black, curling ringlets of hair, and
black, curling whiskers; a prodigious pair of whiskers,
hiding his neck above his blue, turned collar, hiding
partially his face. The glazed hat, brought low
upon his brows, concealed it still more; and he wore
a loose, rough pea-jacket and wide rough trousers
hitched up with a belt. Bearing steadily on, he
struck into Bean lane, a by-way already mentioned
in this history, and from thence, passing through
a small, unfrequented gate, he found himself in the
grounds of East Lynne.

“Let me see,” mused he as he closed the
gate behind him, and slipped the bolt. “The
covered walk? That must be near the acacia trees.
Then I must wind round to the right. I wonder
if either of them will be there, waiting for me?”

Yes. Pacing the covered walk in her bonnet and
mantle, as if taking an evening stroll—­had
any one encountered her, which was very unlikely,
seeing that it was the most retired spot in the grounds—­was
Mrs. Carlyle.

“Oh, Richard! My poor brother!”

Locked in a yearning embrace, emotion overpowered
both. Barbara sobbed like a child. A little
while, and then he put her from him, to look at her.

“So Barbara, you are a wife now?”

“Oh, the happiest wife! Richard, sometimes
I ask myself what I have done that God should have
showered down blessings so great upon me. But
for the sad trouble when I think of you, my life would
be as one long summer’s day. I have the
sweetest baby—­nearly a year old he is now;
I shall have another soon, God willing. And Archibald—­oh,
I am so happy!”